


A Fearful Thing

by Good0mens



Series: 'Tis a Fearful Thing [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Queer Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Hand Jobs, I triied, Kinda, M/M, Meet-Cute, Nicky dies a lot, Nicolo is in the wrong, Nicolo learns, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Smut, Temporary Character Death, The Crusades, Yusuf needs time to figure out how he feels about Nicolo, he's all and he's more, language as culture, probably inaccurate depictions of the crusades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:28:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26227921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Good0mens/pseuds/Good0mens
Summary: "'Tis a fearful thing to love what death can touch."The first time that Death touched Nicolo di Genova was with the curved, sharp point of Yusuf Al-Kaysani’s scimitar, or;Three significant times Nicky dies in front of Yusuf.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: 'Tis a Fearful Thing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897807
Comments: 25
Kudos: 433





	A Fearful Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Nicky does not die for real at any point in this story, I am 100% immortal husbands forever. It's just regular dying and coming back to life, so don't fret. 
> 
> I skipped over them getting together here because that will be explored in the next installment of this series. Enjoy!

**1.**

Yusuf fractures the crusader’s ribcage and severs his life from his body.

As he falls, the invader strikes back with righteous conviction, hitting Yusuf low in his gut, forcing him to stumble back.

The Frank throws his broken body at the pious altar of another self-proclaimed King, reshaping purity to suit the bitter flavour of his faith. Yusuf watches the life bleed out of the crusader’s open chest before blackness overcomes him too.

\--

Yusuf is dragged out from the darkness, with velvet scrapes along his skin and fresh stings on his lips from the unforgiving sun and sand. His clothes are stained with his blood, but when his fingers press into the soft flesh of his abdomen, he bears no mark.

The crusader beside him is likewise inexplicably stirring, but Yusuf can see the fissures of bone still trying to knit themselves together. His eyes are open; they are a lovely sea glass green. The Frank reaches out a shaky hand, and Yusuf is filled with a startling urge to fill the still-healing cracks with his own blood, his gilded fading progeny.

When the hand instead scrambles to his broadsword, Yusuf quickly plunges his own weapon deeper into the man’s chest.

\--

Less than a day later, Yusuf is unceremoniously gouged from behind. He observes vaguely, the familiar point of a sword sticking out of his sternum and the symmetry of the mark before it is stripped out of him. A hand catches his tunic before he can fall, and all he sees before his second death are sea glass eyes.

\--

It goes on like this for a while.

Yusuf and the crusader find one another on the battlefield that was once his home, kill each other, and each pray the other stays dead. Before he awakens, Yusuf dreams of two ferocious women, a crossbow and axe, and those green eyes.

Somewhere between hearing the serrated frantic breath drawing life back into the Frank, and noticing the way his eyes would darken and linger on Yusuf each time they came together after Yusuf had wrapped his hands around his throat until he’d suffocated, something shifted.

Yusuf feels like the smoke left from the flames licking the ground around them, he feels like the ugly shape of a bruise, he feels like the bitter aftertaste of violence. He does not feel like a man, the way his body fosters and tears out new life with every act of brutality laid upon him.

There is a silence that suspends itself, cautiously, between Yusuf and the Frank. It’s held by a long look, by two sets of eyes refusing to break away. They are facing each other, weapons drawn, but neither moves for a moment.

Sometimes, seconds can be eternities. They can stretch out the distance between two weary souls.

And sometimes two feet can be an infinite space to close.

Yusuf is very, very tired. And possibly completely mad, if this whole coming back to life business had any bearing to it.

Which might explain why he lowers his scimitar and extends one hopeful hand.

In the quiet hours of the morning, two mouthpieces of opposing doctrines meet as the dawn spills over the horizon, soaking them in warm sunlight.

**2.**

They’d been travelling alongside each other for a handful of months. Cold winds, the herald of winter, had only just begun biting into their skin.

The crusader, _Nicolo,_ as he’d simply put it to Yusuf, offering his name like a confession, was also dreaming of the two women. They’d both come to the steady decision to navigate the known world together in the hopes of finding them, and perhaps some answers too.

Like why them? Why had Allah decided to bestow this ability to Yusuf, and more bizarrely, why does he share it with Nicolo, a man who prays so differently to him?

They speak mostly in broken Greek and Genoese to communicate. Yusuf, having a better penchant for languages than Nicolo, was slowly but surely mastering the skill of insulting Nicolo in the Ligurian dialect as fluidly as he might his own tongue. Nicolo was a slower learner, but Yusuf couldn’t deny the way his mouth moved with the unfamiliar shape of Arabic, stumbling over new words (Yusef? Yusuf. _Yusuf_.), was more charming than a Frank had any right to be.

It was a begrudging, slowly burgeoning thing, this companionship. Yusuf’s home had been invaded, perverted by Nicolo’s people, who believed Yusuf and his people to be _infidels_. He would be lying if he claimed to be unaffected, impervious to the ways in which Nicolo represented so much pain and hatred by just existing beside him.

He would, too, be lying if he claimed to be unmoved by the ways Nicolo represented so much _hope_ by choosing to remain beside him.

\--

One morning, a few days into their journey, Yusuf rolled over to come face to face with the templar cross, red and angry, half-torn across Nicolo’s tunic. He’d scrambled back, still half-asleep, and reached for his scimitar before Nicolo’s eyes opened, peering blankly at Yusuf. His eyes tracked Yusuf’s wide gaze downward, and his frown deepened momentarily as he looked upon his shirt before his mouth set into grim line.

Wordlessly, Nicolo pulled the material off his back and threw it over the slowly fading embers of their fire.

“Mi dispiace,” he’d apologised, and the sincerity in his tone and eyes lifted something in Yusuf, like an old wound beginning to bruise, like the first step in healing something dark and ugly.

\--

They’ve passed through few towns since setting off, mostly Arabic speaking, being that they began this journey near Yusuf’s homeland. They ditched their armour to keep cool during the day. Without the heavy garments, Yusuf finds that Nicolo’s body is lithe, all long limbs and lean muscle under his soft tunic.

Yusuf is surprised at the earnestness Nicolo shows when attempting to communicate with the street merchants; he blushes, embarrassed, when he conjugates the wrong verbs and receives gentle corrections. Yusuf can see the way it spreads across his cheeks and down the back of his neck past his shirt, pink and lovely.

Nicolo picks out some books to read in Arabic, _to learn_ _about your people_ , he says, as if he was never part of a crusade to clear this land of his people, as if he doesn’t realise he’s burrowing under Yusuf’s skin, down to his bones, with his easy grace and indulgent curiosity.

\--

It’s early in the morning, cold and dry. They’d taken to sleeping in shifts most nights, but being they were out in the desert and Nicolo was an incredibly light sleeper, they both fell asleep beside the fire, Yusuf facing Nicolo’s back, too close, yet too far apart. They’ve been walking through only desert for a week now, and Yusuf watches each day as the sun splits Nicolo’s skin open, splinters red across his shoulders and nose - _sun burnt_ – watches as it heals itself each sunset. At night, he stares at Nicolo’s back and wonders how many people he killed that didn’t come back, if it weighs heavily on those pale shoulders.

As expected, Nicolo hears them first; the roll of hooves striking the ground, the clink of metal moving against itself with each canter. Yusuf is blinking awake when he sees Nicolo’s hand instinctively go to the hilt of his broadsword.

The group of crusaders notice them, because how can they not? They are the only thing for miles, shapes stood out against the flat plains of the desolate tundra. Yusuf feels vulnerable and caught. Nicolo gets to his feet, standing between Yusuf and the group.

For a few brief, terrifying moments, Yusuf doubts. Nicolo and him are clearly bound together by _something_ , but does this bond reach deeper than the roots of their differing faiths? If it is unburied here, would he like what he finds? Would Nicolo?

The three crusaders stop in front of Nicolo. They spit something in Yusuf’s direction, _Pagani_ , but they are speaking to Nicolo. Yusuf doesn’t know the exact meaning, has never heard it from Nicolo, but from the way his companion’s shoulders and jaw tense, he can guess.

 _“Humanity is but a single Brotherhood,”_ in Arabic, the words are lost on the soldiers, but the meaning in Nicolo’s tone is clear. _Back off._

 _Traditore_ are among the words shouted by the group of men. The significance of quoting the Quran to _crusaders_ is not lost on Yusuf.

Struck with a feeling he cannot name, he doesn’t see the mounted invader’s dagger until it has already pierced Nicolo’s heart.

He hears himself shout Nicolo’s name, desperate and shocked, drawing attention to himself. He swallows a bout of panic and pulls out his scimitar. He has killed Nicolo enough times, trained with him enough times these last few months, to understand that like most people caught up in this war, these men are not trained soldiers.

He takes them out with relative ease, drawing them off horseback, kicking a ridiculously oversized shield to throw one off balance while he slashes through another. It’s over in a handful of moments, and Yusuf rushes to Nicolo’s side, where the dagger is still lodged inside his chest.

His eyes are closed, his still mouth parted, blood gathering in the corner of his lip. It dawns on Yusuf that this is the first time Nicolo has been killed by another.

_What if it’s different this time?_

_What if he doesn’t come back?_

“Destati, _Nicolo_ ,” he pleads, “torna da me, idiota!”

Yusuf yanks the blade from his chest and rips open his tunic. When the wound begins closing, he lets out a shaky exhale and collapses back, exhausted.

Nicolo wakes with a deep gasp, sitting up swiftly. He whips his head around, taking in the fallen soldiers behind them, before his sea glass eyes land on Yusuf, softening, relieved. Yusuf does not let himself wonder what he would have done if he had been denied those eyes for the rest of his unknown lifespan.

“Well,” Yusuf tries jokingly instead, “at least now we have horses.”

Nicolo’s answering grin is brighter than the sun.

**3.**

It’s over a hundred years before they find the two women, Andromache and Quynh.

In the meantime, Yusuf and Nicolo have become _YusufandNicolo,_ have seen each other die many times, _too many times_ , Yusuf likes to say.

They have cultivated the skill of fighting and fucking as one being, as an extension of each other. Nicolo has become a part of Yusuf’s body, his entire being anchored by the love they share.

It’s never been easy for Yusuf to watch death touch his lover. It gets harder when Andromache whispers a name, _Lykon_ , like it pains her to say it.

\--

It’s a stupid brawl that does it, _of all things_ , Yusuf thinks. Nicolo and Quynh are sparring, grinning ferally while they circle around each other. Andromache and Yusuf are off to the side conversing, but Nicolo’s bare back, glistening with sweat in the afternoon light, is distracting him, drawing his attention away from whatever they’re talking about. It’s Andromache, so it’s likely about weaponry or the nonexistence of God.

He glances back to Andromache for only a second before he hears a terribly dull thud. When he looks back, Nicolo is flat on the ground, head cracked open against a jagged rock, deep red emptying out onto the ground around his crown, gathering in a tainted halo.

Yusuf lets out a strangled sound as Quynh drops to her knees next to Nicolo’s head.

“Shit,” Andromache mutters, although it sounds more annoyed than upset, before getting up too.

Nicolo is already gasping awake by the time Yusuf can even get to him. He reaches for Yusuf, like every other time, like no other time, and Yusuf clasps his hand between both of his own and closes his eyes in relief.

“Enough sparring for one day,” Andromache says, carefully facile, tugging on Quynh’s hand with a meaningful look to Yusuf.

Nicolo nods, looking back to Andromache. When he turns, Yusuf can see bits of skin and blood stuck to the back of Nicolo’s head.

“Let’s clean you up, hayaty,” he says, calmer than he feels, leading Nicolo to the house they’re currently staying in.

\--

Nicolo sits between Yusuf’s legs in the bath. The water is tepid, warm enough to soak for an hour or so without shivering. Yusuf brings a rag over the crown of Nicolo’s head and gently wipes away the blood and bone, ringing it out into a bucket beside them. Once he is clean, Yusuf traces the spot with his finger.

“I know it bothers you, alby,” Nicolo murmurs.

Yusuf drops his hand and instead circles them around Nicolo’s waist, drawing him closer, breathing in his scent. He doesn’t need to ask what Nicolo is referring to, nor does he need to reply. He presses a single kiss to Nicolo’s neck and waits for him to continue.

“Do you remember the first time you killed me?”

Yusuf flinches slightly, tries not to feel the sting. He knows it’s not meant to be an accusation, even as his hand caresses the dip between his ribcage, in the centre of his chest.

“We killed each other, died together. And we were reborn together,” Nicolo continues, turning in Yusuf’s hold.

Yusuf cups his cheeks, swipes his thumbs along Nicolo’s cheekbones, flushed warm from the bathwater. His lover closes his eyes, leaning into the touch.

When he opens them, he vows, “I will never go where you cannot follow. As long as you remain on this Earth, I will be by your side.”

Joe kisses him then, cradling Nicolo’s head in his hands as if he is something precious, breakable. To Yusuf, he is.

Nicolo pulls back, but not far. “Love me, Yusuf,” he pleads gently against his lips, taking Yusuf’s hand and covering his erection with it.

Yusuf closes his fist around the base, firmly strokes upward, twisting his wrist as he reaches the head, before moving downward again. Nicolo’s breath hitches, and Yusuf can feel it fan across his cheek. His hips attempt to follow the movements of Yusuf’s hand.

Nicolo’s pupils are blown wide, dark gaze hungry as he looks between them, as he looks at Yusuf like he’s all he’s ever wanted. When he comes, it’s with Yusuf’s name on his lips. Yusuf smothers the sound with his own mouth, and Nicolo kisses back, greedy and sated.

Nicolo tugs Yusuf out of the bath and presses him against the stone wall beside the washing basin. He drops to his knees, palms pressing against Yusuf’s thighs for balance. Looking down, Yusuf is unravelled by his beauty.

The sun’s hues burn through the glass window, and the afternoon light wraps itself around Nicolo’s body, as if all the warmth of summer has found its home in him. His skin is the pool of moonlight that pours in afterwards; it is the pallid calm, the vibrating silence in the dark.

His touch still retains the heat from the bathwater, and with his hands on Yusuf, bleeding warmth seeps into his bones and muscles. Yusuf can see the green and blue veins that splinter down Nicolo’s forearms; they bloom from his wrists up into his palms, which he wraps around Yusuf’s cock.

Nicolo’s mouth is a curved, lovely offering. His lips part as a pink tongue swipes around the head of his cock, tasting, savouring. When he finally takes Yusuf into his mouth, he does not stop until his arched nose presses against the dark hair at the base of his groin.

Yusuf groans low, and his hands go to Nicolo’s face. His thumb traces the stretched outline of his mouth. Nicolo’s eyelids futter under Yusuf’s openly appreciative gaze. Nicolo _loves_ this, loves having Yusuf so far down his throat he’s overcome with it, and Yusuf loves him so much that it threatens to burst out of him.

“So good for me, Habibi,” he pants, “I could keep you here, on your knees for me, forever.”

He’s babbling, but Nicolo still blushes high on his cheeks, and it travels down his chest. To know Nicolo is so affected by his words drives Yusuf crazy with want.

He slowly moves his hips forward, thrusting in and out of the wet heat of Nicolo’s mouth. Every time he sinks back in, he presses in as far as he can, feels Nicolo’s throat constrict around his cock, watches tears spring to Nicolo’s eyes, before letting up again, allowing him to breathe.

At some point when he pushes in, Nicolo makes a noise, low in his throat. Yusuf feels the vibrating impact all the way down his cock.

He swears, hips snapping forward to chase the sensation, and when Nicolo does it again, this time deliberately, Yusuf is lost. He comes down Nicolo’s throat, jerks with oversensitivity as Nicolo swallows him down.

He drops to his knees and gathers Nicolo close, kissing him harshly – he can still taste himself on his lover’s tongue, and he kisses Nicolo deeper for it.

“I would die for you, rohy, if it keeps you safe,” Nicolo says when they part, “but dying is easy. You make me want to live.”


End file.
